“Only—­something like what he told
me of himself. He also was foolish enough to
fall in love with you, and—­”

She rose suddenly and held out her hand.

“Come, my friend,” she said, “I
have had enough of this. Take me out to my carriage.
I think you are very wise to avoid such a dangerous
person.”

She swept out of the room before him, and down the
broad stairs. A footman stood by the side of
her victoria until she had settled herself in the
most comfortable corner. Then he mounted the box,
and she leaned for a moment forward.

“You won’t come?” she asked, with
a slight gesture of invitation towards the vacant
seat.

But Douglas, to whom the invitation seemed, in a sense,
allegorical, shook his head. He pointed eastwards.

“The taste of the lotus is sweet,” he
said, “but one must live.”

CHAPTER XIX

A MAN WITHOUT A PAST

Whether Rice’s point of view and judgment upon
Emily de Reuss were prejudiced or not, Douglas certainly
passed from her influence into a more robust and invigorating
literary life. He gave up his expensive chambers,
sold the furniture, reorganised his expenses, and took
a single room in a dull little street off the Strand.
Rice, aided by a few friends, and also by Douglas’s
own growing reputation, secured his admission into
the same Bohemian club to which he and Drexley belonged.
For the first time, Douglas began to meet those who
were, strictly speaking, his fellows, and the wonderful
good comradeship of his newly-adopted profession was
a thing gradually revealed to him. He made many
friends, studied hard, and did some brilliant work.
He abandoned, upon calmer reflection, the idea of
going abroad, and was given to understand that his
position on the Courier might be regarded as a permanency.
He saw his future gradually defined in clearer colours—­it
became obvious to him that his days of struggling were
past and over. He had won his place within the
charmed circle of those who had been tried and proved.
Only there was always at the bottom of his heart a
secret dread, a shadowy terror, most often present
when he found himself alone with Rice or Emily de
Reuss. It seemed to him that their eyes were
perpetually questioning him, and there was one subject
which both religiously and fearfully avoided.

He was popular enough amongst the jovial, lighthearted
circle of his fellow-workers and club companions,
yet he himself was scarcely of their disposition.
His attitude towards life was still serious, he carried
always with him some suggestions of a past which must
ever remain an ugly and fearsome thing. His sense
of humour was unlimited—­in repartee he
easily held his own. He was agreeable to everybody,
but he never sought acquaintances, and avoided intimacies.
More especially was he averse to any mention of his
earlier days.